Dream Weaver
by disenchantedphoenix
Summary: Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of a man could invent. We do not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on... it would make all of fiction most stale. - Sherlock Holmes,


**A/N:** As I said, this is a sequel to Two of the Same (i hate that title with a passion). It can be read as a stand alone also. And I should probably add that Two of the Same was inspired by Bump in the Night by szm on live journal. If you like the whole Sherlock as a monster thing, then you should definitely read that fic, cause it's awesome!

You pass people on the street everyday. On your way to work, occupied with a call to a friend, or something on your mind. You pay them absolutely no attention. After all, why would you?

But what if these people meant your life?

What if they meant your death?

Impossible, you think. I don't know these people; they have no affect on me. But you have no idea. If there's one thing Sherlock has taught me in the few months that I've lived with him is that you have absolutely no idea what these people are capable of.

Sherlock is my best friend, my lover, they only one who has truly understood me since childhood. The fact that he's a monster of sorts… Well, that hasn't bothered me for a long time, or ever really. I thank God everyday that he saved my life and returned to me because really, it wasn't much of a life without him. Those first few nights back with him… Jesus. I barely slept. But it's not as though I'm complaining.

Sherlock has interesting abilities. Among the power to change his appearance and summon water spirits, he can also enter people's minds in a very strange way.

When they are sleeping, he can travel inside their minds; see their entire lives. Hopes, dreams, fears. Definitely fears. The most accurate term I have ever come across to describe him is Dream Weaver. That's what he does, in a very literal sense. He takes your very being into his hands and weaves dreams for you while you sleep.

He likes to make me think he only weaves the bad ones. Not nightmares, per say; leave those to the demons, he says. The unsettling ones that leave you thinking throughout the day, second guessing yourself and wondering if you're really the person you thought you were. He'll give good dreams sometimes, though he doesn't like to admit it, and yes, even the occasional nightmare when prompted. He gives you what you deserve. Nothing more, nothing less.

One night, quite late in fact, we were laying in bed, and we could see the night sky clearly out the window. His arm was around me, and he was stroking my hair in the infuriatingly pleasant way that he does. We were both wide awake despite the hour, and he turned to me and asked a very peculiar question.

"John? What does your mind feel like?"

"How would I know?" I replied. "I've never really experienced it like that."

"Would you let me? Just once? I promise I won't disturb anything." He was speaking rather timidly for Sherlock.

I had no qualms about consenting to this, as I trusted him completely. "If you want," I replied, and soon I found myself falling into a deep sleep. I was half aware of his presence in my mind however, both of us drifting along on the sea of my thoughts. Eventually, I felt him leave, and I awoke what I think was a few minutes later.

"Well?" I asked, but he held up a hand to silence me, and I complied. For some time, he lay next to me, mouth slightly open and breathing deep, in his full form that I always insisted he wore with me; horns, fangs, and all. Finally, he spoke.

"Do you know what my true home is like, John? The place I lived before we met?"

"No," I said, confused. "But-"

"It was a void," he continued, as if I hadn't spoke. "Nothing. Just blackness. It gets to a point where you can't tell up from down, and you don't much care to anymore."

"That sounds horrible."

"It is. But you… You are like a light in that darkness. Something constant to hold on to. Your mind has so much light. You burn with it. And there's this strange music I've never heard before that comes in like a wind and wraps around you. It- you- Sound beautiful."

I was silent for a long time, mostly trying to understand this concept, and ultimately failing. But I wrapped my arms around him nonetheless, and he curled up there, looking almost alarmingly vulnerable.

Later that week, he asked he something that I confess had never crossed my mind.

"Would you like to come with me tonight?"

"Where?"

" 'Dream Weaving' as you like to call it," he said, stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"You can do that?"

" Of course."

"And you never thought to bring it up?"

"Didn't seem relevant."

I rolled my eyes.

That night I did go with him. It was an unnerving way of traveling. He put me to sleep, but then a peculiar thing happened. I was standing beside Sherlock, yet when I looked down at the bed I could still see myself sleeping right next to him. Before I could comment on this, he took my hand and led me to the window, where everything seemed to melt away around us. Then, before our eyes, a new scene built up. It took me a few moments of disorientation to realize we were in the bedroom of one of our colleagues, who was sound asleep on his bed.

Now, mind you, this man had never said one unkind word to me. He got testy with Sherlock sometimes, but didn't everybody? He'd even taken Molly out a few times, although it didn't go anywhere. Too boring, she said.

Sherlock laid a hand on his head, and motioned for me to do the same. Another melt away, and then we were actually inside this man's mind.

It was black.

Blacker then black. I heard Sherlock's sharp in take of breath somewhere beside me. "This is the void," he whispered.

And the thoughts swirling in there were of the most violent, ghastly, putrid things I could conceive and beyond. Some of these pertained to Molly, who was of course very dear to the both of us. I heard Sherlock growl, and I was deposited back in our bedroom.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of him," I heard in my ear.

Later, he refused to speak on the matter. But I never saw that man again.

I didn't travel with him anymore, despite assurances that nothing like that would happen again. I found the sensations quite unpleasant. I didn't do it a second time. Willingly, that is.

Yet another night when I was sleeping, I found myself back in a void, only this time was different. There were strange bursts of color, and images depicting terrifying things straight out of a horror movie. I'm not ashamed to say I was so scared I almost fainted.

"So," a menacing voice said, echoing all around me. "You're John Watson. Sherlock is quite enamored with you, though I can't imagine why. So very, very average."

I would have replied, but clear thinking had left me.

"Be careful what you say; you never know who could be listening." The voice faded away, but I was left in that place for what felt like hours, though probably wasn't.

I awoke crying out and flailing. Sherlock's arms were immediately around me tightly, and he murmured reassurances to me until I had sufficiently calmed down.

When I explained what had happened, he merely rolled his eyes. "That was just Mycroft. He's nothing to be afraid of."

"Well, it certainly scared me! After all, I'm just a weak little human, right?" I huffed, irritated that he'd made out what was quite possibly one of the most terrifying experience in my life to be nothing.

Sherlock seemed amused by my outburst, his lips quirking slightly. "You're not weak. I was merely stating that, while he does put on a good show, Mycroft is as harmless as a fly. He's just being the overly protective brother that he is."

"You never told me you had a brother."

"You never asked. Besides, I didn't want to say his name too many times. Bit like that movie, Beetlejuice. Or Voldemort."

I laughed. "You can't be serious."

"Of course not. I'm going to have a talk with him," he said, as I was beginning to drift back to sleep. "My John is anything but average."

It was these skills Sherlock had that earned him the title 'Best And Only Consulting Detective Scotland Yard Has Ever Seen'. He put criminals behind bars in minutes after they has stumped the police force for days.

There is one case that will always stick in my mind. Apparent suicide by poison capsules. Of course, Sherlock suspected murder, and of course, he was right. He was on the trail of some man, a cabbie I think, when everything went wrong.

I can't tell you much of what went through my mind that night, other that 'Oh God oh God gotta get to him must get to him right now shit wrong building what now what now can't do it don't do it you'll die can't die not now'. I was unaware that the poison in question might not even affect him. I have no memory of pulling the trigger.

Later, back with Sherlock, I asked him what on Earth he's been thinking.

"Those particular pills weren't poisoned; they were cursed to kill one of my kind. And that man wasn't acting of his own accord. He was possessed."

"Possessed? You mean like Paranormal Activity possessed?" I was distraught that I may have just killed an innocent man, albeit out of necessity. "By what?"

Sherlock seemed apprehensive for a moment, but that was quickly replaced by interest, determination, and the unmistakable joy of the chase.

The name he breathed into the wind seemed to wrap around us like iron.

"Moriarty."


End file.
